


Psmith Shows Initiative

by surexit



Series: The Gradual Deflowering of Comrade Psmith [3]
Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:35:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surexit/pseuds/surexit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What wickedness,” Psmith said, raising an eyebrow. “Are we to recreate Sodom and Gomorrah?”</p><p>“Not the whole thing, I hope,” Mike said, drawing back the bedcovers. “You might leave that dressing gown behind.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psmith Shows Initiative

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to soupytwist and somebraveapollo for cheering and betaing, and to somebraveapollo for the title!

Mike woke up slowly, his consciousness swimming up out of a perfectly lovely dream about cricket. There was something wrong with his room, something off about the shapes, and it took him a moment or two to sort out what, with half of his sleepy mind still insisting that that shadow over _there_ was the wicket, and _there_ was the pavilion, and _here_ the sight screen. Finally, he realised that none of the shadows were cricket-related, and one of them was Psmith.

He sat bolt upright, a strangled sound caught in his throat. Psmith’s familiar form was perched on a chair worryingly close to the bed, resting his head on one hand and watching Mike. He was also wearing only a nightshirt and a rather splendid burgundy dressing gown.

“Ah, good, you’re awake,” Psmith said, pleased. 

Mike made the strangled sound again. It seemed the only reasonable response. Psmith looked at him with a bland and benignly patient countenance.

“Why are you in my bedroom?” Mike managed to say, after a moment of composing himself. “And why are you watching me?” 

“Does the one not follow from the other? I am watching you because I am in your bedroom, Comrade Jackson, and I see nothing more pleasing to fix mine eye upon.”

“All right,” Mike said, flopping back onto the pillows with a sense of impending doom. “Just the first question then.”

“Ah,” said Psmith. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

“Did you think I might not?”

“Oh no,” Psmith said. “A man of such keen and searching intellect? I was certain you’d get around to it eventually.”

“And I did,” Mike said. “Would you mind awfully answering? Only I was quite enjoying being asleep.”

Psmith smiled broadly and said, “I thought we should try something new. In a place where my father is somewhat less likely to be desirous of your thoughts, should he have one of his customary strokes of genius.”

It took Mike slightly longer than usual to parse the words, as he was still not quite compos mentis. Once he’d muddled through them, he said, “Did you lock the door?”

“Of course,” Psmith said, assuming a faintly wounded air. 

“Good,” Mike said. “Do you, um. Do you want to join me?”

“What wickedness,” Psmith said, raising an eyebrow. “Are we to recreate Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“Not the whole thing, I hope,” Mike said, drawing back the bedcovers. “You might leave that dressing gown behind.”

“A very smart plan, Comrade Jackson, very smart indeed,” Psmith said, standing up and divesting himself of the article in question. His nightshirt was rather short, and Mike ran his eyes up the pale lines of Psmith’s calves as Psmith came towards the bed. “Should I also…” Psmith said, which snapped Mike’s eyes up to his face.

“Should you also what?” he said.

Psmith coughed. “The nightshirt,” he said. “Should we, ahem, bare all? I use the plural pronoun, you understand, to indicate that I would quite like to include you in the process.”

“I should hope so,” Mike said. “I’d quite like to be included.” He sat up, and said, “But look here, I can’t answer that question, it’s up to you. I’m good for anything, old man, you know that.”

“I suppose you are,” Psmith said softly. “In that case, Comrade Jackson, would you mind awfully if we disrobed?”

“Not at all,” Mike said, and pulled his nightshirt over his head.

“Efficient as ever, Comrade,” Psmith said approvingly. “I believe I shall follow your example.” He grasped the hem of his nightshirt and pulled it up and over in one smooth movement. “There,” he said. “Naked as the day I was born, although I expect somewhat more handsome. I was an uncommonly ugly child,” he added pensively, putting his hands on his bare hips. Mike followed their movement with his eyes helplessly. “No sign of what was to come at all. My sister was apparently given to comparing me to a boiled shrimp. Ha! Not all that shrimplike now.”

“No,” Mike agreed. 

“I say, Jackson, are you eyeing up my membrum virile? I feel quite exposed.”

Mike couldn’t stop a laugh from escaping him, and Psmith’s mouth quirked amusedly for a fleeting moment. “I was,” he said. “Would you give over and get in the bed, you ass?”

“If you insist,” Psmith said, and climbed onto the bed next to Mike, settling himself cross-legged and resting his hands on his knees. “I am at the mercy of your whims from this moment forth, Comrade. I cast myself upon the bosom of your imagination and experience, and hope that the journey will be pleasant.”

“Right,” said Mike. “Um.” None of the words he knew seemed appropriate for this situation, with Psmith watching him with his most beautifully earnest expression. “I should suggest something?” 

“No, Comrade Jackson, you should _do_ something.”

“Oh.” That was a little easier. “Without talking about it?”

“Without talking about it,” Psmith confirmed. “I shall throw up some sort of smoke signal if I feel over-ravished.”

Mike leaned towards him, planting his hands over Psmith’s on Psmith’s knees for balance, and brushed their lips together. “I’ve not done this much,” he said, speaking against Psmith’s mouth.

“I’m rather pleased to hear it, I must confess,” Psmith said. “As entertaining as it might have been to be shocked speechless by the depths of your esoteric knowledge, I find myself possessed of previously unsuspected territorial urges. Man is essentially an animal, after all.”

This speech left Mike a little warm. “I feel similarly,” he said, sitting back and looking down at his hands. Declarations like this were not really in his line.

“Only in your case you are essentially claiming virgin territory,” Psmith said, rolling his tongue salaciously over the word ‘virgin’. He suddenly flung himself onto his back, arms and legs akimbo, and said, “Here I lie, untouched before this moment! Be gentle with me! I shall think of England!”

“You should stop reading those books,” Mike said. “Actually, you should stop reading anything.”

Psmith put a hand over his eyes as though he were swooning. “Your wish is my command, my prince,” he said. There was a smile lurking at the corners of his thin mouth. “I am but a humble stableboy, I know nothing of the world! Teach me the arts of love!”

“You’d make a rotten stableboy,” Mike said, reaching out to pat Psmith’s stomach affectionately, the skin soft and warm under his hand. “And I’d be a rotten prince.”

“I think you’d be rather splendid, actually,” Psmith said, peeking out from under his hand.

“You’ve given it some thought,” Mike observed, sliding his hand along Psmith’s body. The softness underneath his palm changed to scratchy hair, and the muscles in Psmith’s stomach jumped.

“I have,” Psmith said, a touch unsteadily. “Detailed thought. Private thought, you understand.”

“I should hope so,” Mike said stoutly, wrapping his hand around Psmith’s cock. Psmith gasped, and arched. “I’d hate to think,” Mike went on, hoping that his own voice was still firm, “that you’d been discussing my potential or otherwise for princeliness with other interested parties.”

“Oh no,” said Psmith, weakly. “I’m not keen on discussion with other interested parties. My aforementioned territorial urges are terribly strong.”

“Terribly glad to hear it,” Mike said, beginning to stroke up and down the organ in his hand. Psmith’s mouth opened on a weak sound, and he lifted his hips into Mike’s movement. Mike glanced down his body and saw that his toes were flexing.

“Oh, oh,” Psmith said, eyes screwed shut. “That’s really very nice, Comrade – oh – Jackson.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Mike said, pleased at the reaction he was causing. “I’ve always enjoy-”

Psmith’s eyes flicked open, and he said, voice breathy, “Oh, _sire_.”

Mike gaped for a moment and then could not hold back his laughter. He collapsed over Psmith in his fit. “Shall I call you boy?” he said between chortles, and was glad to feel the body under his also vibrating with amusement.

“If it pleases you, Comrade Jackson, if it pleases you,” Psmith said, touching one hand to the back of Mike’s shoulder.

“This sort of thing is usually a little more serious, you know,” Mike said, getting himself under control. 

“I’m glad you say that,” Psmith said, “because it tells me that you’ve only done it with awfully dull chaps before, and that soothes the ravening beast of jealousy in my breast somewhat.” He poked at Mike’s cheek. “Which was, I must confess, awakened by you beginning to reference your previous exploits. I think your timing is rather poor, Comrade Jackson, rather poor indeed. Had you shown such timing at the wicket last week, the house team would have undoubtedly crumbled to the villagers, and dishonour would have descended upon the Smith family name.”

“I can see that,” Mike said, feeling shamefaced. “Sorry.”

“You’re forgiven,” Psmith said, a benevolent light in his eyes. “And I should forgive you even more heartily if you could see your way clear to finishing my ravishment.”

Mike grinned at him, and reached a hand down to do just that.


End file.
